


The Game

by Crysania



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 12:12:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12681654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crysania/pseuds/Crysania
Summary: Tumblr prompt: Rumbelle play some EF!version of strip poker, possibly while drunk.I decided to go with something much simpler than poker (because admittedly I don't understand poker) and so did a sort of simplistic version of strip Yahtzee.





	The Game

She doesn't know what's gotten into her, really. Maybe the wine was poisoned. Or stronger than usual. Or maybe she's had just a little bit too much. Dinner was normal, certainly. She cooked. Or tried to, rather. She's never been a good cook. Not even a passable one if she's to be totally honest. So most nights she tries, Rumplestiltskin rolls his eyes and smirks, and the dinner of overdone meat and slightly burned vegetables and scorched rice is suddenly transformed into something amazing.

This evening he's been talkative. He's not always. Many evenings he eats as if someone will take the food away and then he disappears before she's even had a bite or two. But this night he's been in a storytelling mood and so they’ve retreated to the comfortable chairs that sit close to the fire. Belle, quiet and attentive, has been sipping at the same wine glass for the past three hours. She never notices that he refills it. Nor does she notice that he refills his own in the same nonchalant way.

Neither are paying attention.

Neither notice that the room sways just a little and their vision has gone just the tiniest bit fuzzy around the edges.

"Let's play a game," Belle says as she leans just a little bit forward. She reaches out, almost touches him, before drawing back just slightly.

"A game?" Rumplestiltskin's eyes narrow just a little. "What sort of game?" He's always been up for games, and sometimes they play long into the night. He plays to win, as does she. And while he's devious and quick-witted, she's clever and sees the larger picture. They're evenly matched and it's made for some interesting evenings.

It certainly wasn't what she expected when being taken as his prisoner. She's realized that she might just be a little bit in love with the ridiculous little imp. Not that she'll admit that to him. She barely admits it to herself. Maybe in the dark of night when her hands go places she blushes to think of during the light of day. Maybe _then_ , but certainly not at other times.

"Yes," she finally answers him. "A game."

 "Chess?" he offers. She glances at the board, still set up where she lost the previous match and shakes her head.

"No, I don't think I can handle that tonight."

Rumplestiltskin leans toward her and his arm goes slightly out from under him. He eyes her rather morosely. "I suppose I can't either," he mutters and she grins.

"Dice?" she offers up. "There's an old game played by my people."

"Do tell," he say with one wave of his hand that she's sure is _supposed_ to be graceful but instead looks a little bit like he's flailing about.

"It's simple. Roll the dice. Five," she adds. "Five dice. Three rolls. Best roll wins." There’s more to the game than that, keeping track of points and all that, but she doesn’t have the head for numbers at that moment. Best keep it as simple as possible.

He watches her for a moment. "Simple. Yes. Simple is good." His forehead crinkles up slightly and not for the first time Belle wants to reach out and smooth the wrinkles away. For a moment she _almost_ does but then clenches her hand into a fist and draws it back to her lap.

Rumplestiltskin waves his hand and five dice appear on the table. Belle reaches for them but before her hands can close on them, his hand comes out and smacks hers away. "We need to decide on wagers, my dear," he points out.

"Of course," she responds with, prim, proper. "In my home, people used coins.”

He gives a completely indelicate snort at that. “ _Coins_.” One of his hands waves in the air. “How mundane.”

She waits for him to continue, crossing her arms over her chest and pursing her lips just a little. She knows he will. He _always_ continues. And usually with something she knows she’s not going to like.

“I have a better one.”

“Of course you do.”

“Of course I do,” he responds with, as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world.

She has to wait a bit longer for his pronouncement. Rumplestiltskin is always the showman. He lets that side of his personality drop on occasion with her, sometimes allowing her to see the man behind the tittering trickster. But not now, not with a bit too much wine in him and a slight flush to his cheeks. His eyes are somewhat over-bright and she’s frankly surprised the Dark One can even _get_ tipsy. Granted, he’s drunk far more of the wine than she has. Even now he reaches for his glass and takes a sip before continuing.

The arch of one of his brows, the smirk playing about his lips. She should have known there was _something_ terrible he would come up with.

“Clothes,” he says.

“Clothes?” She’s not quite sure what he means. “I don’t want your clothes.”

“Not _wagering_ clothes,” he says with a small sneer. “Well, not exactly.” And there’s that titter. Her heart sinks a little bit into her stomach. “For every loss, you remove a piece of clothing.”

The words fall heavily into the room for a moment. “And you?” she asks, gripping her wine glass just a little harder than is probably necessary.

“The same.”

She blinks as she stares at him and there’s something pressing just at the edges of her mind. Pushing it away she offers up a grin, confidence she doesn’t feel quite inside. “Well, I hope you know that I am _excellent_ at this game.”

Another snort. Another wave of the hand. “It’s all chance, my dear,” he responds with.

Leaning forward she reaches out to grip his arm, just briefly. “And it had better be chance. No magic.”

“I don’t cheat.” He draws back from her and she lets him.

With a nod, she reaches out toward the dice. “Let the games begin then.” And with those words she tosses the dice. It’s not a good roll. Of course it’s not. She glances at him briefly and he offers up a shrug. She’s gotten fairly used to reading him and she’s sure there wasn’t magic involved. Just bad luck. Her next two rolls aren’t much better. Three of a kind, but with twos. Not exactly the best rolls.

Rumplestiltskin smirks and pulls the dice away from her. Their hands touch just briefly and she tries to ignore the way it makes the butterflies in her stomach take to wing.

His rolls are, of course, far better. She’s watching for sleight of hand, for hints of his magic, but sees none. He ends up with four of a kind and though it’s only threes, it's still better than hers. He makes a little tittering noise and claps his hands together. “Well, my dear, off with it!”

She shakes her head and contemplates for a moment, finally reaching down to unlace one shoe and kickings it off.

“Shoes count as one, dear, off with them both.”

“Are you so sure you want to go that route?” she says and arches one eyebrow at him. The advantage to being female is the amount of layers they dress in. Shift, petticoats, corset. If she were crafty, she might be able to count the ribbon tying her corset closed as an item. But Rumplestiltskin? Well, she’s not sure what he wears beneath his clothing (and frankly, she is trying very hard not to think on it), but so far as she can tell with his boots counting as one item, that leaves him with a grand total of four piece, maybe five.

“Fine,” he grumbles.

They roll again, which results in Belle’s other shoe being kicked off and an overly large grin on Rumplestiltskin’s face. The third roll leads to her heaving a huge sigh and pulling the ribbon out of her hair.

She’s surprised to see him swallow hard when her hair tumbles about her shoulders. She knows it must look a right mess, but he leans forward just slightly, one hand outreached and almost… _almost_ …touches a strand. She finds herself leaning toward him in that moment, waiting, her breath hitching just slightly, before he draws back, his fingers rubbing together and his mouth tightening just a little.

“Your roll, I believe.” His voice is quiet, just a bit subdued. He offers up his usual flamboyant hand gesture but it’s understated, just a little wave instead of the dramatic flair.

“Right,” she responds with and she’s not quite sure what just happened.

The next roll is a lucky one for Belle. Three fours, two ones. A full house. Rumplestiltskin’s pair of sixes is nothing next to that and she smirks. _Finally_. "Seems you're up." She leans across the table and watches, waits.

He does nothing at first, just glares at her. She knows he's trying to figure out a way around it, a way to remove the least. She's lost three times and the worst she's lost are her shoes. And Rumplestiltskin's clothes are always a bit of his armor.

"I bet you wish you were wearing that dragonhide coat you love so much."

He continues to glare.

She glares back. "You lost this round," she points out, entirely not helpfully.

His eyes narrow.

She crosses her arms over her chest and meets his eyes, her face slightly screwed up in an imitation of his scowl.

And then the corner of his mouth quirks. Just a little. And she lets out a laugh. "Fine, then," he finally says with a slight huff. His hands make quick work of his vest, sliding the buttons with a deftness she can't help but be impressed with. He shrugs it off with little ceremony, tossing it on the floor near her shoes.

She wants to say something funny, something cutting, _something_. But instead she finds her teeth worrying at her lower lip. His shirt hangs loose on his thin frame and he almost seems to shrink into himself as she watches him. His eyes are massive, unblinking, his face stony. She's never seen him this vulnerable before.

It suits him.

And it leaves her mouth a little dry, her heartbeat a little raised. She takes a deep breath. "This _was_ your idea," she points out. Her voice sounds a little strange even to her own ears and Rumplestiltskin sucks in a deep breath at the sound.

"Indeed it was." There's no giggle there, no titter or lilt to the words. He almost sounds… _human_. As if the clothes make the imp and as she peels away the layers, she finds the man hidden somewhere inside the monster he thinks he is.

And if she tries to pretend she’s not noticing the way the shirt hugs his lithe frame as he leans back in his chair, that’s no one’s business but her own.

“Another roll?” She can hear the uncertainty in her voice.

_Maybe this was a bad idea…_

_It was_ his _idea…_

_But you went along with it…_

“Yes,” he says at last and she wonders if he’s thinking the same thing she is. _End it now_.

She rolls anyway. She’s not even sure why, but the dice leave her hands and the game is back on. She loses this time, of course she does. It leaves her down to her corset or skirt. Her layers are being stripped back too. _Do the brave thing_ …

A deep breath and she reaches down to her waist and unties the ribbon there, loosening the skirt and letting it drop. It’s easier that way. Her shift still protects her modesty and she offers him a small smirk as she kicks the skirt aside.

“That’s cheating.” He points one clawed finger at her.

“You didn’t specify what order anything comes off in.” She bats his hand away. “Roll.” _In it for the long haul…_

He picks up the dice without even looking at them and tosses them on the table. One skitters close to Belle and she pushes it back. His eyes narrow at her. “Did you…”

“No. I don’t cheat.”

He loses and she’s thankful she’s spared making the next choice. He waves a hand and one of his boots unlaces itself. She lets out a small giggle and his eyes shoot to hers. “I always wondered…”

“There are a lot of laces,” he confirms.

“There are.”

It’s inane, really, this conversation. But she doesn’t know what else to say. She feels the effects of the alcohol still, thick in her bloodstream, and even so wants to reach for another glass of wine.

Rumplestiltskin reaches down and pulls the boot off and it lands on the floor near her shoes. It’s strange to see it, sitting there, off _him_. They’re so much a part of him she sometimes wondered if they weren’t _him_. But no, she sees his bare foot now, the same gray-green as the skin of his hands and face. His nails are black, but not long like his fingernails and she’s not sure why that leaves her somewhat relieved.

He’s a man…

Just a man…

“Roll,” he says and she realizes she’s been staring.

“I…” Whatever comes off next is going to be too much, too… _something_. She’s not sure she’s ready to bare anything more. She’s a maiden, still, hiding behind her screen when taking a bath, only allowing one matronly attendant to help her dress and dry her hair. Here magic takes care of most of it. The bath is hers and hers alone, hidden in a corner of the bedroom he gave her on her fourth day with him. The screen helps her feel less exposed, but there’s no one there to disturb her, not a servant and certainly not Rumplestiltskin who has never invaded her private space. He’s a gentleman that way and she’s no longer surprised at it. Oh, she was her first days there. He wanted a caretaker for his _large estate_. Not one person in that room didn’t think that was some sort of horrifying euphemism. After all, what sorcerer needs a maid?

Apparently this one, though his castle, while drafty, is far from the filthy pit he seemed to believe it was. She spends more time reading and playing games with him than she does actually cleaning the massive place.

“Do you forfeit?”’

“We didn’t come up with a rule for forfeiture,” she points out.

“So we didn’t.” He says nothing further, his hands steepled together as he watches her. She doesn’t respond for a moment, just watches him. There’s a slight tremor in one hand and there’s something about that small bit of motion that puts her at ease.

He’s nervous too.

More than nervous even. She’s seen him nervous before, tittering and making terrible jokes. A deflection. He’s the big bad Dark One and nothing, _nothing_ scares him.

“I’ll roll then?” And she’s not sure if she wants him to say _yes_ or to tell her this was all just a joke and _I didn’t think you’d let me take it this far dearie…go get your shoes on and dust the library_.

He nods. Just once. A simple movement of that head that seems to mean _so much more_ right then. She does as he asks, tossing the dice and sending a little prayer to whatever god might listen that this one goes her way.

It doesn’t, of course. And the next thing she knows, she’s rolled absolutely _nothing_. Even a pair of ones would beat her terrible roll. Rumplestiltskin clearly knows this, taking his time as he picks up the dice, rolling them around in his hand before he throws them with a slight flourish of his wrist.

“Oh just get on with it,” she mutters.

There’s not much to be done. Her skirt is gone, which leaves her with exactly _two_ things left to her dignity. Her corset and her shift.

He prolongs the torture, carefully eying up his roll, moving them around, and finally completing his last two rolls.  There’s no titter of glee that accompanies it and when she manages to look at him, her cheeks no doubt red, his eyes are huge, the pupils dilated in the dim light of the fire. She hasn’t even noticed, not until now, that the sun has long since set and the fire throws strange ever-shifting shadows about the cavernous room.

With a sigh, she reaches up to undo the ribbon that ties to together the bodice of her corset. It’s knotted. Not for the first time really. She has a tendency to tie it oddly. After all, she’s on her own now. Her corsets used to do up in back, her maid tying it up smartly and then untying it in the evening. Now she _is_ the maid and the corset is made in such a way to allow her to dress herself, lacing up the front and tying just over her chest.

Of course, _today_ it would be a tangled mess.

Of course, _today_ it would be impossible to remove. Her fingers _shake_ as she tries to. She’s never undressed in front of anyone, especially a man ( _a monster, she can hear him say with that titter in his voice that says he really does believe he’s not a man_ ).

When she lets out a somewhat unlady like curse, she looks up to see him watching her, leaning toward her a bit. “Allow me?” The words are soft and she nods. Magic will make it easier. It will be over before she can blink and she’ll be half bare to him, in her shift and nothing more.

_It’s like your nightdress_ , she tries to remind herself, even though he’s never seen her in _that_ either.

He doesn’t use magic. That surprises her more than anything else in that moment. Instead, he pushes himself to the edge of the chair and turns. His hands hesitate a moment before they come into contact with her dress, as if he’s asking permission.

_He is_ , she realizes.

With a nod from her, he plucks at the laces. One of his nails ( _claws?_ ) lightly scrapes along the sensitive skin of her chest and she shivers.

He stops, draws back.

“No,” she says before she can stop herself from saying anything. A proper lady would push him away.

_A proper lady would never have let this start._

_A proper lady would never have_ gone _with him in the first place_.

She knows a _proper_ lady would have married Gaston, tied her life to a superficial brute, had her children and considered that a good life.

But no, she’s not a proper lady. She read… _everything_. She spent time in the war council, discussing ogres, hearing of their massacres. She dreamt of being brave, of saving her people. She never imagined saving her people would have led her to a game of dice that involved stripping in front of a man who thinks himself a monster.

She tries not to think of how ashamed her father would be, seeing his daughter acting so brazen.

When he has the ribbon undone at the top, one finger gently touches the skin, just briefly, almost as if it were an accident. Her breath hitches for a moment and he pushes himself backward, away from her. The hand that touched her is making strange motions in the air, forefinger and thumb rubbing together. Rhythmic. Almost mesmerizing. He doesn’t look at her and she finds she _wants_ him to.

She waits, breath held.

His eyes finally rise, meet hers. His pupils are almost completely blown out and there’s a haunted look in his eyes. She slowly undoes the ribbon, lingering over it far longer than she should. She has no idea what she’s doing, but the way he takes a deep shaky breath tells her that she’s doing something right.

_Wrong…it’s probably_ wrong _but it_ feels _right and propriety be damned…_

When the ribbon is out, the corset of her over-dress hangs loose. Her breasts are still hidden behind the white shift and sides of the stiff material, but the cool air brushes her and she feels herself stiffen just a little. Rumplestiltskin says nothing as she tosses the ribbon to the side. “I think that will do.” She sounds like the prim and proper maiden she _should_ be and isn’t so sure she _is_ anymore. Not when there’s this wildness building up inside her, not when her stomach is clenching and she’s craving _something_. Something she can’t quite articulate and yet it’s there, hiding just beneath the surface, clamoring to come forward, to overflow beyond the tight confines she's kept it in.

“Yes,” he says and his voice is nothing more than a hoarse whisper. “Yes I think it will.”

He looks almost relieved.

Neither says another word for a moment and then Belle picks up the dice. She doesn’t even know who’s rolling first. It doesn’t matter.

Rumplestiltskin’s hand comes out quickly and closes over hers. “Are you sure?”

It’s a chance to back out, to end this now. They can retreat to their safe spaces. Her reading couch, his wheel. She can read until she falls asleep. He can spin until he forgets whatever ghosts haunt his soul. She’ll wake up in her own bed the next morning, never knowing how she got there and finding herself thankful for his magic and his thoughtfulness. Especially when she goes about the day with no crick in her neck.

One word.

That’s all it would take.

_No…_

And he would end this whole thing.

“Yes.” He swallows hard and releases her hand to allow her to roll. For a moment she almost follows his hand with her own, tries to stop the near constant motion of his spinner’s fingers. But she doesn’t. She releases the dice, wondering where this is going to go, how far they’ll take it.

It’s his turn to lose though and as soon as he reads the dice, as soon as he realizes it’s his turn on the chopping block, as it were, his eyes flash to hers. One hand comes up to the top button of his shirt and stops there. His eyes are wide, a deer in the sight of a hunter’s bow, a rabbit frozen upon seeing a predator stalking it.

He’s supposed to be the predator here.

She the fair maiden, captured by the dragon and dragged off to his lair. The pretty bauble he keeps hidden away. Now _she_ appears to be the dragon as his fingers, so sure and steady as he spins his draw into gold, tremble as he attempts to undo the first button.

She’s not even sure what comes over her in that moment as she leans forward. “Let me.” There’s a husky note to her voice that’s not usually there. Rumplestiltskin nods once and releases the button. His hands shake as he holds them in the air briefly before reaching down and gripping the arms of the chair. Nervous. _Scared_. She’s not sure what to think.

But she sets to her task, slowly working each button out of its hole. She’s careful not to touch him, though finds her fingers brush the skin of his chest even so. With each slight brushing of skin to skin, his breath stutters and his hands clench.

She finds her own breath hitching when she gets to the last button and realizes that slowly he’s started to lean _toward_ her, as if he needs to get closer, drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

The chest she reveals is covered in the same grey-green skin, oddly textured and yet she finds it beautiful. Without even contemplating what she’s doing, she reaches out one hand and places it on his chest, over his heart. She can feel it pounding there, stuttering slightly before speeding up.

One of his hands comes up and closes around her wrist. Lightly. Barely touching. She can feel the heat and the slight brush of his palm surrounding her. She takes a deep breath, looks up, meets his eyes.

His lips are slightly parted. She’s close enough to see as the tip of his tongue comes out to wet dry lips, close enough to see the eyelashes, thick around wide eyes. Close enough to feel the heat that emanates off him. She expected him to be cold. She doesn’t know why, really. _Scales_ , she realizes. His skin resembles scales when viewed from a distance. Up close it loses that strange luster, looking textured and yet it feels almost smooth beneath her hand.

“What are doing?” The voice that comes out of Rumplestiltskin is nothing like she’s ever heard. Quiet, curious, almost dumb-founded.

He sounds human.

And he sounds _terrified_.

“I…” she starts to say and her voice shakes on that one simple word. She bites her lip and looks away from him, away from the storm brewing in his eyes. “I don’t know.”

She takes a deep breath.

Doesn’t move.

He doesn’t move either and she’s almost sure he’s _holding_ his breath.

Everything seems to stretch out around her and the world, so fuzzy a moment ago, seems to be drawn into sharp clarity. She has a decision to make. Move back, release him, offer up a small awkward laugh and put an end to the game.

Or look up.

Meet his eyes.

And let whatever is meant to happen…just… _happen_.

She looks up. Of course she does. She can’t make another decision, her heart won’t let her. Her _body_ won’t let her. She has no idea what she’s doing, no idea how far he dares go, how far _she_ dares go. She knows of this, perhaps less than she thought she did. _Lay back and just deal with it_ …that’s what she knows, stories of pain and brutish husbands and _getting the duty done_.

This is not a duty. Oh, she’s certain the people of her homeland think it’s _exactly_ what she’s been doing all these months. Earning her keep on her back because what all-powerful sorcerer really needs a _maid_?

Her eyes meet his and for a moment he doesn’t move. She doesn’t move. And then he’s gripping her shoulders, almost yanking her off the chair in order to pull her to him. His lips are on hers before she can even draw a breath. The kiss is harsh at first, desperate, messy. She lets out a little gasp at the contact and he uses that to his advantage, his tongue slipping into her mouth. He gentles then, his tongue sliding across hers, engaging it in a sort of dance, a give and take. She tries to mimic his movements and feels him groan against her lips.

The pleasure of that sound shoots straight down the center of her body, pooling in the heat curling at the juncture of her thighs.

He releases her suddenly and rests his head in the crook of her shoulder. “Gods, Belle,” he whispers against the bare skin there and the warmth, the vibration, sends a another shock of pleasure through her. One hand comes up to caress his wild hair and it’s softer than she expects, the curls wrapping around her hand as she winds her fingers into the strands.

When he pulls away from her and meets her eyes, she realizes he's trembling. She watches as he takes a deep breath, shuts his eyes for a moment and then meets hers again. "Belle…are you…" He can't quite get the last word out and she wonders what he's thinking, what fears he has.

She puts one hand on his cheek and he leans into her touch. Like a dog starved for affection. "Roll the dice," she says in answer.

"Roll...?"

"Yes." She bites her lip and offers up a small smile. "Roll them."

He doesn’t move, just stares at her.

"Rumplestiltskin…"

"Yes…I'll…" He shakes his head, finally breaking the eye contact, and picks up the dice, tossing them in one fluid motion. His rolls are ultimately good. Belle's are not. She waits for him to make his move. Her corset still hangs loose about her. But he doesn't move. He waits and he still seems almost in shock.

_Do the brave thing…_ she'll have to take matters into her own hand. As soon as she pulls him back to her and kisses him, the dam breaks and he wraps his arms around her, pulls her tight against him. She'd climb into his lap if she dared. She feels wanton, like stripping every layer and leaving herself bare before him..

She's in love with him.

She's sure of it.

She can't imagine how such a thing happened, but here she is.

When he trails kisses down her throat, she throws her head back. When he nips at the skin where her shoulder meets her neck, she lets out a low moan. His hands are pushing at her corset and she brings her arms back, just slightly. Enough that he can push it off her completely, allowing it to drop to the ground. She barely noticed it as one of his hands comes up to ghost along the skin of her forearm, to brush across her stomach, still covered in her shift. When his hand cups her breast she finds herself arching her back, moving into his touch, her eyes shutting to enjoy the sensation even more.

He's gentle as he holds it and she opens her eyes and watches him. He touches her with such awe and she can see just the slight tremble to his hand. He starts to lean down toward her and she holds her breath. _Is he…_ she can't say she hasn't imagined it, imagined what it would feel like, wondered if she would ever dare _ask_ him.

"Belle…"

"Yes," she answers and then he's leaned forward and his mouth closes over one nipple, tongue coming out to lave it. She lets out a moan and then he's suckling at it, nipping at it. Even with the shift still in the way the sensations are like nothing she's ever imagined. Her hands come up and thread through his hair. She doesn't want him to stop and so she holds him there as he continues his ministrations.

She should be embarrassed. She should be horrified. Instead, she's neither.

When he releases her and looks up at her, his eyes are almost completely black, pupils huge. "Yes," she says to his unasked question. _Are you sure?_ Absolutely, completely sure. He pulls her closer to him and she finds herself straddling him, pressed against him. She can feel him hot and heavy at her center as she opens to him. One of his hands massages her calf, runs up to her knee. His touch his feather-light, almost ticklish, as his hand brushes up her thigh and comes to rest there.

He stops then. "Roll," he says and she cocks her head slightly to the side.

"Roll…"

"Yes, roll the dice, Belle." And the way he says her name, so absolutely wrecked, so very human, sends a shiver up her spine. She doesn’t move from his lap, instead reaching over him, her breasts pressing up against his chest and causing him to shift beneath her, pressing up into her as he does so. She lets out a small gasp and her hand misses the dice. Once, twice, and then she finally closes over them.

She doesn't want to toss them, doesn't care really. The game is over. No one was the loser. And they were both, she hopes, the winners of this one.

But she tosses them anyway. She can't even see them from where she is. They're on the table, somewhere behind them. Or maybe on the floor. It doesn't matter. _She doesn't care_. She leans back away from him, just slightly, and lets out a small laugh. "Bad roll. Seems I lost."

“You…”

_Do the brave thing_ …the words go around and around in her head, like his spinning wheel. A mantra of sorts. _Do the brave thing_ …and she reaches down to the bottom of her shift and pulls it over her head before she can even think about what she’s doing. If she thinks too much she’ll falter, she’ll _run_. Bravery does not come naturally to her, despite her mother’s long standing belief in her. She’s not naturally a coward of course. But _this_ kind of bravery? It’s new. And a little scary. She wants to cover herself up as she’s bared to his eyes. No one has seen her thus, even her maids avert their eyes when she leaves the bath. Now she sits in the lap of a man who most consider a monster, body entirely bared to his gaze.

Rumplestiltskin lets out a small gasp and freezes. His hands flutter strangely in the air for a moment before resting at her waist. His touch is light, almost as if he’s afraid to break her. Or afraid that his touch will not be welcome. It is, of course. She’s not quite realized just _how_ welcome until _now_. His hands are warm where they rest on her and she pushes herself further down onto him, leans forward, kisses him. She can feel his cock twitch beneath her center, can feel him straining at the leather pants that still contain him.

One of his hands comes up to lightly brush the peak of one breast and she looks down to see him reverently watching her, cupping her breasts and running his finger along her puckered nipple. When he finally leans forward and his lips close around one rosy nipple she lets out a moan she didn’t know she was capable of. “Oh Gods…” He bites down, just a light scoring of his teeth against the sensitive skin there. “Rumple…”

He growls as she says his name and then suckles hard on the nipple that he has been paying such close attention to her. Her hands thread through his hair, tugging at the strands.

When he finally breaks away from her she leans down and meets his eyes, her breath mingling with his. “Roll,” she says and the word comes out on a breathy sigh.

“To hell with that,” he says against her lips and the kisses her again, biting lightly on her lower lip as one hand trails down her side, up her thigh. Her legs are already spread far apart over him, anchored there only by the sides of the chair. He manages to spread them just a little bit, leaving them open over his middle and then his hand finds her. _There_ …just there. She’s touched herself there before, of course she has. But as he strokes her, one finger tracing just around the outside of that little nub she’s so very _desperate_ to have him touch, she realizes it was _nothing_ compared to this. She’s melting, all the moisture pooling at her center. “Oh Gods, Rumple…please…” She doesn’t even know what she’s asking for. _Touch me…right there_ …

“Yes my dear?” he asks as he leans forward. The words are whispered into her ear. She shivers at the feeling of his breath fanning out over her face. He nibbles at her throat, at her earlobe, suckling there like he did at her breast..

“Please…just…”

“Yes?” And there’s a small bit of amusement there.

“Touch me,” she finally manages to say.

And he does, his finger finally coming to touch that small nub where so much of her pleasure lies. She lets out a small keening noise at the touch, as if it’s everything she’s ever wanted in her entire life, as if _this_ is what life is meant to be about. Her hips buck against him as he dips one finger into her.

She expects pain.

She gets none.

His finger slides in and she sighs at the feeling as he crooks it inside her, moving it in and out. His thumb brushes her clitoris and she almost falls apart… _almost_ …It’s when he pulls his finger out of her and then plunges back in with _two_ that she feels the pressure building. He thrusts in and out, this thumb moving in time, his other hand anchoring her, keeping her spread open above him like some pagan sacrifice.

She feels a pressure building up inside her, tightening her entire body. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, leans forward. Her eyes close and she’s surrounded by nothing but _him_. The feel of his hand digging into her side, the feel of him inside her. And then everything seems to still for a moment, her muscles tense and the pressure becomes _too much_ and then she's falling apart around him. His hand makes one final thrust inside her and holds there as she rides out the waves of pleasure.

As she slumps over him, he releases her and she's _almost_ sure that he's about to end it all. There's a strange look on his face, shuttered, and she can feel him start to drift away. She won't allow it. She can _feel_ him beneath her, the hardness of him, and she knows this can't be only about her. Though she's never heard of such a situation. _Just let him get his rutting on_ …as if the woman is barely involved. She's wondered, of course, listened to tales told by frustrated maids and the cook who was always too free with her words. But here Rumplestiltskin, the monster they're all scared of, seems to break the mold.

He shifts beneath her and she holds tightly to him. "No," she manages to get out before running her hands down the skin of his chest, touching him lightly but firmly, watching his nipples pucker beneath her touch. He shudders as her hands comes in contact with the laces of his breeches.

"What…"

"Seems you lost," she murmurs into his ear.

"Belle, no…we don't…"

"Have to?" She offers a small smile. "No we don't. But I _want_ to." She sets to untying the laces and he lets her, lets her peel the leather back and when her hand wraps around him he lets out a gasp she never could have imagined coming from him. She smiles. She cannot help it. There's a power here, holding the cock of such a powerful sorcerer and seeing him look so completely wrecked.

She lifts herself up and lets go of him briefly to tug at his pants. He does as she asks almost meekly, lifting his hips and allowing her to push the leather down over his arse and to the floor. They're still around his ankles. That doesn't matter. That can wait.

Straddling him again, she reaches down to grasp him once more, guiding him toward her.

He stops her then, hand over hers, his eyes earnest. His pupils are almost completely dilated and she meets his eyes. "Belle are you sure?"

She lets him get the words out this time and there's something in her that just melts. He sounds terribly unsure of himself at that moment. She knows what he wants. It's written all over his body. But he's giving _her_ the chance to back out. Even now, as she hovers above him. Even now as she has her hand wrapped around him, as she can feel him almost impossibly hard beneath her hand, steel and silk together.

She can't quite speak and so instead, guides the head of his cock to her entrance and presses down. Just a little. She's still afraid of pain. But as he lifts toward her, his hips moving almost of their own volition, there is none. She sinks down over him, until he’s buried completely in her. He’s thick and hard in there and it’s a strange sensation. But it’s not painful. Just…full, she realizes. She feels filled up for the first time, as if _this_ is what she’s been missing. She wiggles her body just a little bit and feels him shift below her.

“If you do much more of that, dear, I’m not going to last long.”

“Oh?” And then she realizes what he means and lets out a little nervous laugh. “Oh.”

He nods and a ghost of a smile flits over his face. He reaches out, his hands coming to grasp her waist and pulls her up just a little bit. She can feel him slide out and _Oh Gods_ if it’s not the most amazing feeling in the world, all that hard length pulling against her insides.

But then he pulls her back _down_ , plunging back up inside her and it’s better, more amazing. He feels perfect there. She never had any idea. _Lay back and just let him rut away_ …never again would she believe such a terrible lie.

He lets her set the pace, his hands loose on her waist. Hers grip the sides of the chair as he thrusts up to meet her. His head is thrown back and she watches him…watches as his eyes slam shut, as his body starts to shudder underneath hers, watches as his mouth goes slack. He takes over then, wrapping his arms tightly about her and thrusting up into her body. Once. Twice. His momentum stutters just a little bit and then he’s holding tight to her as she feels him let go inside her.

She wraps herself around him as his breathing slows, his hands touching her back lightly, stroking down the still heated, overly-sensitive skin.

When she finally leans back and manages to meet his eyes he looks almost…contrite. “Belle, I…” he starts to say but she stops him, one finger pressing against his lips. He looks wild at that moment, hair askew, framing his face in untamed curls.

“Don’t you dare apologize.” She reaches out to tug at those curls and watches as he winces just a little bit. “Not now. Not tonight.” She was as much a part of it as he was, pushing further, not just _letting_ it happen but choosing to make it happen.

He starts to say something and she tugs again. “Please. Just…not right now…”

She sees the moment he gives up, heaving a sigh and letting his eyes drop from hers. She stands up then, releasing him, feeling him slide out of her. He looks wrecked, sitting there in the chair, pants about his ankles, his cock softening and yet damp with her juices. He looks…amazing. As she finds her shift and tosses it over her head, he watches her.

She holds out one hand to him and his eyes follow it, but his body does not move. “Come to bed, Rumplestiltskin?” Her voice is soft and she offers him a tremulous smile. She’s sure he can see the way her hand shakes just slightly. _Do the brave thing_ …

At long last, he offers a small nod and as soon as his hand touches hers, they disappear in a puff of smoke. There are _discussions_ to be had tomorrow. Of course there will be. _This changes everything_. But for now, she can sleep soundly with him wrapped around her. They can let their fears go for one night before facing the light of the next day.


End file.
